Mist of purity
Halo of fog
Rising and covering me
The forest is a maze
With the echoes of war
Elder wood, nearly black trees
With the lingering memory
Of the clash
The ground once printed
With Roman sandals
And Celtic bare feet
The screams of anger
The muted moans of the dying
Become a confluence
A river of tears
From the children of the warriors
All crying
But the days now are modern
The forests are cut
Made to harvest
But the earth remembers
The dreams of conquest
The memories of a slaughter
Where no army won the day
The war forgotten
None remember the contest
